


Secrets and Lies

by oooknuk



Series: Revelations [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: After 'Revelations' Methos goes away, comes back, goes away, comes back. Mac gets mad. Joe gets shifty. Don't these guys ever talk to each other? (Covers from 'The Modern Prometheus' to after 'Not to Be').





	Secrets and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Language, a little violence, angst, too much talking and not enough fucking (as in, no fucking fucking.)

Methos swung his backpack off and took a place at a terminal. He bought a cup of coffee and settled down for some heavy message reading - two months out of communications with the real world was a long time in the 21st century, he thought as he logged in. Hmmm - only four messages, three from Joe Dawson, one from Amanda, and none from MacLeod? That was odd, he thought, opening the first one from Joe.   
 

> `Ben` [Joe wrote, to Methos' new persona, a linguist called Benjamin 'did I have to pick a name from a show that is in syndication in every corner of the fucking planet ' Pierce]
> 
> `I don't really know where to start. Mac's gone missing.`

  
[What the hell! Methos thought, nearly spilling his cup]   
 

> `We've looked everywhere - and I do mean everywhere - but no one's heard or seen him or any trace of him in three weeks. There's a long story behind it. To tell the truth, I haven't been up to writing until today. There's no easy way to say it - Richie's dead, and Mac's got the inheritance.`

  
[Oh ... fuck, Methos thought. Mac _killed_ Ryan? Joe, you better explain this.]   
 

> `Mac was acting weird for the week before Richie died - claimed he was seeing Koren ...`

  
[Kronos!]   
 

> `Horton, and a girl who died in a house fire. Some old guy tried to tell him he was a millennial champion, to fight a demon called Ahriman. I wish I was repeating a plot from the Twilight Zone, old man, but it's what we've been living through.`
> 
> `You can imagine how we feel now. I'm hoping you'll get this soon and call me.`
> 
> `Joe`

  
Methos stared at the screen in utter shock. Quickly he opened the next one from Joe.   
 

> `Ben`
> 
> `I guess you're still trekking around South East Asia. No word from Mac at all - Amanda's crazy with worry, and not a little pissed off with MacLeod. I'm ... well, I'm coping, but that's all. In case you're wondering, I'm not asking you to come back to Paris. There's no point. But will you please call when you get this?`
> 
> `Joe`   
>  

The next one simply read.   
 

> `Ben`
> 
> `I need to talk to you`
> 
> `Joe`   
>  

The other one was from Amanda.   
 

> `Dear M`
> 
> `I don't know where you are but things are terrible here. Joe's nearly out of his mind with grief and worry about Duncan, and he's so upset about Richie. He had to organise the funeral and the gravestone - I tried to help, but you know there's only so much I can do. He wanted Mac there. I still don't understand how Mac came to do what he did but we would all feel so much better if we could just speak to him. If you have _any_ idea where he might have gone, please, please, darling M, call us?`
> 
> ` A`

  
Methos logged off and asked to use one of the public phones. It took three tries before he got a decent line and made the connection to Paris. Joe was a long time picking up, and his voice was slurred when he answered. "Hello?"

"Joe, it's me. I just got your message."

"Fuck, Me... I mean, Ben. Godammit, where the hell have you been?"

"Away from my email. Joe, what's happening?"

"Nothing at all," Joe said heavily. "Mac's done a vanishing act and there's no trace. The organisation can't find any sign of him. You gotta tell me if there's anywhere you think he might have gone."

Methos searched his brain. "Scotland? Connor?"

"Tried those, and everyone he knows in Paris and Seacouver. Even asked up around that island of his - nothing."

"I'm sorry, Joe. Those would have been my only suggestions. Listen, tell me about Richie."

"Aw, Jesus, Methos." Joe was too upset to be cautious and Methos could hear the tears in his voice. "He was just a damn kid - Mac cut him down, no warning, no challenge. Just left me with a dead body and ran out."

"Ran out of where, Joe?" Methos asked patiently.

"The old racetrack. Richie called him to say he saw Horton ...."

" _Richie_ saw Horton? James Horton? The one who's been dead for years?"

"You gonna let me tell you about this?" Joe asked belligerently.

"Sorry, carry on."

"Mac gets this call, or so he says, and flies out of the barge like a bat out of hell. I follow him and get to the racetrack in time to see the Quickening. When I find Mac, he was crying over Richie's body. M... Ben - he left his sword behind."

"The katana? Did he take another weapon with him?"

"Not that I could see. All that was missing was a change of clothes, his passport and wallet. He didn't even lock up the barge properly."

"Joe, should I come back?"

"No, no - there's no point. Amanda's taking care of Mac's affairs, and I buried Richie. I ... just needed to talk to you, and ask if you had any ideas."

"Joe, I really am sorry about this. I can't help, but look, I'll try and call or email more regularly. I should be able to do that from now on."

"Been anywhere good?"

Methos recognised the attempt at normality. "I'm in Hanoi at the moment, heading to down to Malaysia, then Australia. I was going to look for a job out there."

"Hey, sounds good."

"Joe, are you all right?"

"I'll survive, old man. I'm sure glad to hear from you. I suppose you want to call Amanda, but she's in Russia at the moment."

"I'll email her then. You take care, my friend."

"And you. If you hear anything ..."

"You will be the first to know. Bye, Joe."

Methos hung up and pondered his course of action. The problem was, he didn't know as much about Mac's sphere of friends and acquaintances as Joe did, for all Mac and Methos had become close - lovers, in fact - in the past few months. After their return from the island, Methos had spent a bare three days in Paris, picking up one of his ready made identities and settling things before heading out of Europe. He hadn't even been able to stay with Mac since Amanda had claimed him the minute they reached Charles de Gaulle Airport. - it was only fair Methos thought, and hadn't minded too much, bunking on Joe's couch instead. He'd left town warning all who cared that he planned to be lost for a month, maybe more, but he never dreamed things would go so pear-shaped in such a short time.

Mac was licking his wounds, Methos well imagined, and was no doubt hip deep in a fine Scottish brood. But where? It wasn't like him to run away from his problems so thoroughly - that was considered a Methos speciality, the old man thought wryly. And what in God's name had caused him to kill a man he thought of as a son? It had to be some sort of horrible accident, Methos felt sure.

He emailed Amanda with a short, friendly message, giving her his plans, and then he called his airline to change his ticket. Whatever Joe had said, the Watcher was clearly in bad shape, and Methos was not one to abandon his friends when it was in his power to help. He couldn't help Mac, but he could at least be with Joe.

Three days later he was outside Le Blues Bar, having come straight from the airport. He walked in unnoticed by Joe who had his back to the bar. "Be with you in a minute, pal."

"Take all the time you need, Joe," Methos said, and couldn't help but grin as Joe did a double take and went wide-eyed with shock.

"Methos!"

"Shhh!" Methos said theatrically. "Everyone will want one. How are you, Joe?"

"Man oh man, better for seeing you." Joe walked out from behind the bar and wrapped Methos in a hug. "I thought you weren't gonna come back."

"No, you told me not to. I'm very bad at following orders."

Joe smiled. "Let me get you a beer. So how long are you back here for?"

"How long do you need me for?"

Joe put his hands on the bar and looked at Methos quizzically. "You're serious. You came back for me?"

"Of course. I'm not a complete pig, you know."

"No - no, I didn't mean that. But ... aw, who cares? Welcome back, buddy." He handed Methos a beer and saluted him with a shot of whiskey.

Joe offered him the use of the barge, but Methos declined, knowing that Joe would prefer his company. Besides, the barge would be too painful to face without the dominating personality of the Highlander. Methos dumped his gear in Joe's apartment, had a nap and woke in time to take the blues man out for a meal where he got the whole, sordid story of Richie's death and MacLeod's mental decline. Methos had a few theories about that, none of which he wanted to share with Joe, and none of which were of any more than academic interest in the Scot's absence. What mattered now was finding MacLeod - and Joe seemed to be doing as much as anyone could to locate him - and helping Joe himself.

Methos noted with distress that Joe was drinking heavily, and sleeping badly. His grief over Richie's death was slightly surprising to Methos, who hadn't thought the two were so close, but the circumstances could hardly have been sadder. While Methos had thought little of Richie, that he meant a lot to Mac was undeniable, and that Joe was taking the whole thing incredibly hard was also clear.

Without fuss, he took his place as a temporary unpaid barman, and when the bar was closed, he saw to it that Joe ate better, and more, and drank less. They spent time talking, playing chess and jamming, once Joe had winkled out of Methos that he could play a keyboard. With the careful patient care that Methos had himself received such a short time before from MacLeod, he was able to see Joe return to something like his normal, irascible and indomitable self.

He'd been back a month when he got an email from Australia. Joe saw him frown at the screen. "Bad news?"

"Oh - no. More like, badly timed. A job I applied for in Brisbane - they want me to fly out for an interview." At the sudden concern on Joe's face, he added quickly, "It's okay, Joe. I'm going to turn them down. You need me here."

"No way, man. You've been great, but babysitting's done. You wanted to go to Australia, so go for the interview. Nothing to say you'll get it, and you'll get a free flight out of it."

"Joe, it's not the only job for a linguist ...."

"I said, go, old man. I'm throwing you out - it's time I got my apartment back to myself."

In the face of Joe's determination, Methos had little choice but to give in. He booked his flight and was in Brisbane within a week. Rather as he'd predicted, the faculty at Griffith University were prepared to more or less offer him the collective first born of the entire staff if he would take the job. 'Benjamin Pierce's' qualifications were impeccable and impressive, exactly as Methos had designed them. He was a catch and he knew it. He asked for time to decide and flew back to Paris. Announcing the news to Joe, he didn't miss the flicker of loneliness that passed over Joe's face before he grinned and told Methos to take the job.

"Hell, it's only for a year, right? Kind of opportunity that doesn't come along that many times in _your_ lifespan, let alone mine. Take it and run."

"Joe, I really don't think I should go."

"Go. It's my final word. Listen, Methos. I really appreciate everything you've done, but you and me both know what we need is MacLeod to come back. Until he does, nothing's happening here. I'm gonna stay ... kinda keep Richie company, if you see what I mean. I'll be here when Mac gets back - and you."

Methos could not argue with Joe's courage, if not his wisdom. "But what if Mac is still deluded when he gets back?"

"I call you, I call Amanda. I can always shoot the bastard. I've been dealing with Mac for a while now."

"That you have, Joe. All right. I'll take it - but on one condition. You email me every week, and you be here when I call you every month. And I will call, and I will come back. Okay?"

Joe smiled and shook his hand. "Okay."

"Well, let's not get too damn sentimental, they don't want me until November, plenty of time to make you thoroughly sick of me."

"And who's saying I'm not now?"

Methos accepted the job, and then put his efforts into getting Joe as firmly back on his feet as he could do in the two and a half months before he had to fly out again. It was slightly risky for him to be so closely associating with a known friend of 'Adam Pierson's', officially dead, and unofficially still very much desired by the Chinese and by the biotech company that had abducted and tortured him months earlier. However, as he told Joe, the best hiding place is often out in plain view. They took no unnecessary risks, and he lived quietly, working in the bar and socialising only with Joe. They both regretted that Amanda stayed away, and neither of them saw her before Methos caught the Qantas flight at the end of October. Joe offered to drive him to the airport, Methos refused. "I hate airport goodbyes, Joe."

"Anyway - it's not 'goodbye', it's 'see you around'."

"Exactly." He hugged Joe hard. "Take care, Watcher Dawson."

"And you too, old man. See you next year."

Methos wished he felt happier about going.

It was a good deal for him, he knew that. His new employers were prepared to be extremely liberal about time off for freelance translating offers so he would, if necessary, be able to go back to Europe with little notice. He found an attractive flat not far from the University, signed up to use the impressive sports facilities, and settled in for a year of undemanding academic life. As he promised, Joe emailed every week, but the news from Paris was depressingly similar - no sign of Mac. He reported that Amanda had eventually flitted in and out of Paris a couple of times, but without Mac's presence, it was clear her interests lay elsewhere, and she was gone for months at a time.

The only bright spot was that Joe sounded a lot more cheerful in his emails and on the phone. Although he still mentioned Richie, it was obvious that his grief was following a normal, healthy course. Methos wished he knew that Mac was recovering similarly - his best hope was that the Scot was holed up on Holy Ground somewhere. The idea of a depressed Immortal of Mac's calibre wandering around without a sword kept Methos awake at nights and he wished he had hung on in Paris just another week or two. As he'd told Mac on the island, 'Our timing sucks.'

He spent a lot of time thinking about Mac. The Scot would have loved Australia and its plain speaking people, Methos thought - although it was also true that the sense of humour got a bit wearing. The year's contract should have been a chance to mend the remaining damage to Methos' psyche after his abduction - instead, his thoughts were back in Europe, and he had an unsatisfying feeling of marking time, waiting for the Highlander to return.

When the anniversary of Richie's death passed with no word from Joe of Mac's reappearance, hope died a little in Methos. He had been sure that Mac would come back for that - it seemed so much a MacLeod thing to do. Either whatever was ailing his Scot was still bedevilling him, or.... No, it could not be that MacLeod was dead. That was unthinkable. And unlikely, Methos thought, once his panic lessened. If someone had killed MacLeod and taken that incredible Quickening, the Immortal would have cut a swathe through the ranks of lesser Immortals and would have been picked up by the Watchers. It was the only comfort, the only hope, Methos could cling to.

 

* * *

The Australian academic year ended, the students took off for their three month long summer holiday and Methos packed up his office and his flat in readiness to depart, a week earlier than advertised thanks to the reluctant permission of the Dean, who had done his damndest to persuade him to accept an extension on the contract. "I'm sorry, Dr Byrnes, I can't. I have commitments back in Paris."

"Well, I understand that, Hawkeye. But if you change your mind once you fly back into a European winter, you know where we are. I don't know how you can stand it myself."

Methos grinned. His sun-loving tendencies were the despair of his UV-phobic Australian colleagues, who were always urging him to 'slip, slop, slap' when they saw him walking about in the midday sun with no hat and no sunscreen. He could come to no harm, but they didn't know that. "I'll live. I bought one of those cans of Australian sunshine for emergency purposes."

The Dean slapped him on the shoulders. "It's been a pleasure, Ben. Look us up if you ever get down under again." Methos had no difficulty promising that.

And then it was time to go.

 

* * *

Methos had deliberately not told Joe he was coming back early, so he could surprise the Watcher. He'd intended to go straight to the bar, but an impulse made him tell the taxi to take him down to the Seine's bank, opposite Notre Dame, and drop him off. He could take another to Joe's but he had this urge to see the barge again - as if by some miracle Mac would have appeared and all would be well again. The boat looked exactly the same as it always had - it was even still connected to the utilities, which Methos thought was rather extravagant of Amanda. Looking closer, he was even more puzzled to see the gangplank in place - was Amanda staying on board? He walked up the board and knocked but the door was locked and there was no Presence to be felt. He looked about - no clues as to who was living there. He shrugged and turned to walk back onto the quay.

"Where the fucking hell have you been?" a familiar and furious voice called.

"Mac?" Methos stared at the Immortal walking determinedly towards him. Gods, he looks fantastic, Methos thought - way pissed though. "What ...?"

"I asked, where the fucking hell have you been, Methos?"

Mac was now standing at the foot of the gangplank, and unless Methos wanted to jump for it or swim, he would have to go through the very angry, very fit and very lean figure of his friend, although that title was looking a little suspect at the moment.

"Where have _I_ been? Are you all right, MacLeod?"

"Joe said you've been out of touch for over a year. That he had no way of contacting you."

" _Did_ he?" Methos' shock was mutating into a rage that made Macleod's temper look like a minor snit. "I've been in Australia - right where ...."

"I don't want to hear it, Methos!" Mac shouted. "You ran off and left him again. Left me. Some bloody friend you are."

Methos' control finally cracked. "Well, excuse the fuck out of me, MacLeod. I'd didn't see your name tattooed on my bum, and I must have mislaid the leash. Get out of my way. I've got someone to see."

Still glaring, Mac stepped aside, and Methos walked past without looking at him. I am going to bloody kill Joe Dawson, he swore.

 

* * *

That was clearly the impression Joe got too when Methos strode into the bar, threw his bags on the floor and yelled, "Dawson, get your arse out here - I've got a bone to pick with you!"

Joe came out of the storeroom, holding a pistol. "Don't try anything, Methos. I won't hesitate to shoot."

"And I won't hesitate to come back from the dead and force feed you your own fucking lungs, you conniving, lying son of a bitch! What the hell have you been telling MacLeod?"

Joe's shoulders slumped. "You went by the barge, huh?"

"Yes, I went by the bloody barge," Methos said with heavy sarcasm. "When were you planning to tell me he was back? And why the fuck did you tell him I hadn't been in touch? What did I ever do to you to deserve that sort of betrayal?"

Joe flinched at his choice of words, but Methos continued to glare at him. "Look, I had my reasons. Do we have to do this here?"

Methos turned just as Joe did, and saw MacLeod walk into the bar. "No, we don't have to do this here, Dawson," Mac said, "but I want some answers. Get Mike to take over, or I swear, your having no legs won't make a lot of difference to what I'm gonna do."

Joe paled and even Methos stepped back at the venom in Mac's words. "Give me a minute," Joe mumbled, and called his bar manager to come in to reopen before he locked the front door. "Upstairs," he said, telling them to go to his flat. Methos and Mac carefully avoided looking at or touching each other. Even if the Highlander had been deceived, Methos was stung by the assumption that he would behave in such a way. He'd thought Mac knew him better than that.

The atmosphere in the flat could have frozen a side of beef, Methos thought. Joe looked as guilty as Methos thought was fitting. "Uh, a drink for anyone?" the Watcher asked diffidently.

The politeness was wasted on MacLeod. "Cut the crap, Joe. What's going on?" Mac refused to sit, and for the first time in minutes, Methos felt a tiny twinge of sympathy for the Watcher, which he stepped on ruthlessly.

"Jesus, Mac. Will ya sit down? Give me a chance to explain - the both of you."

Methos nodded at Macleod. "Go on, MacLeod. Pretend you have some manners." MacLeod scowled at Methos, who ignored it entirely. "Okay, Joe. You're on. Why did you tell Mac you hadn't heard from me? No - wait. First - how long have you been back in town?" he asked the Scot.

"Since May. I came back ..."

"For the anniversary? I _knew_ it," Methos said savagely. "Joe?" he asked, not hiding his anger.

"It was to protect you, Methos, I swear to God," Joe said in agitation. It was the last thing Methos expected to hear - and the surprise on Mac's face showed he was as taken aback as the Ancient. Joe rubbed his face. "I can't do this without a drink, I'm sorry."

Methos realised things were more complicated than he realised. "Joe, sit down. I'll get us all one." He didn't like the way Joe's hands were shaking. He touched Joe's shoulder, and got a look of such gratitude that he couldn't hold his anger any more. "We're listening, Joe. I promise to hear you out."

Mac didn't appear to be so forgiving, but Joe took courage from Methos' words, and after he was handed a whiskey, he began again. "When Mac first got back into town, he was still talking about Ahriman, and how Ahriman killed Richie. I was prepared to help him if I could but I wasn't gonna let him kill another friend. I'm sorry, Methos, Mac. I couldn't go through that again. Not ... not ...." Joe looked down, and the grip on his glass tightened to the point where he risked it cracking. Methos got up and sat down next to the blues man on the sofa, put his hand over one of Joe's.

"It's okay," he said softly. "I'm beginning to understand. Mac, why don't you tell me what happened when you got back. Where the hell were you, anyway?"

"Malaysia, in a monastery," Mac said, looking and sounding uncomfortable. From being the wounded party, he had suddenly become the apparent villain of the piece, not a position with which Duncan Macleod of the Clan MacLeod was overly familiar. "When I got back, Ahriman was waiting for me. With Joe's help we defeated it. Joe, that was months ago," he said accusingly.

"Mac - listen, I'm sorry buddy, but I only have your word for that...."

"You thought I made it up?" Mac asked angrily.

"I didn't _know_ , Mac. How the hell was I supposed to be sure? How did I know I wouldn't get Methos back here on my say so, and then you would cut his head off?"

"You shouldn't have interfered, Joe. I can look after myself," Methos said firmly but not unkindly.

"You mean like Richie? You're telling me that you wouldn't lower your guard if Mac came calling? What if he took your head without warning?"

"Richie's death was an accident," Mac said, standing and glaring at them both. "I'm not responsible."

"Richie's still _dead_ , MacLeod," Joe said straight back, thin-lipped. "And accident or no accident, whose hand was on the sword?"

"Jesus, Joe," Mac said angrily. "You'll never forgive me for that, will you?"

"Forgive, I can do,' Joe said steadily. "Live through more of my friends killing each other, I can't do."

Mac put down his drink. "Joe, you had no right. And I thought you trusted me. I needed Methos here. I needed to know where he was, to talk to him." Methos decided to stay out of this, but Mac's insistence puzzled him.

"Well, fuck you, Duncan MacLeod!" Joe shouted, struggling to his feet. "You didn't give a rat's ass what I needed, what Richie needed, did ya? You arrogant son of a bitch, get the fuck out of my home before I shoot you!"

MacLeod glared at him in a mixture of shock and anger, then quietly turned on his heel and walked out. Methos was torn - he sympathised with both men, but right now, he figured Joe was more vulnerable than Mac. Joe had other ideas. "Go on after him, Methos."

"He'll calm down, Joe. So will you." He stayed seated and looked innocently up at the Watcher.

Joe looked at him through narrowed eyes. "You were pretty mad yourself ten minutes ago."

"I didn't know the facts, then. I don't say I agree with what you did, but I understand. I _understand_. Now sit down, and tell me more about this Ahriman thing and what's been happening."

Reluctantly, Joe sat down. Methos made them both coffee and threw out the alcohol. He listened to the unlikely tale, and when Joe had finished, found himself grateful for the bluesman's commonsense. "But one thing I don't get - I was due back next week anyway. When were you planning to tell Mac?"

Joe coughed in embarrassment. "It was going to be a surprise. Jesus, I really read this wrong, didn't I."

"Not at all. Not where it matters. No permanent harm has been done. Now, are you okay? I really should go and see if MacLeod is polishing a bullet with your name on it."

Joe smiled for the first time since Methos had walked into the bar. "Nah, he'd use the katana. Methos - I'm sorry, I really am. I meant for the best, honest."

Methos gripped his shoulder. "Enough regrets, Dawson. I'll see you later."

As Methos walked out, Joe called after him. "Where are you staying?"

"I'm not sure. I'll let you know. Right now, I would say the barge is definitely out."

"You could stay here ...."

Methos shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I've just had a 22 hour flight - I need a shower that only a hotel's water supply can deal with. But I'll come by tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Tell Mac...."

"Don't worry, Joe. I'll fix it. I'm beginning to think that's my role in life."

 

* * *

Actually, there was little than Methos wanted to do more than to grab that shower, and humping his bags around in and out of taxis wasn't his preferred way of working off jet lag either, but he figured he had to get to Mac before the Scot began to brood again. The barge door was unlocked, and to his dismay, Mac wasn't ready with a sword to greet him. Instead, he was behind the little bar, making tea. Methos dropped his bags and took a moment to assess the drastic change in the interior of the boat.

"Did the pixies steal your stuff or has Amanda been visiting?" he asked lightly.

Mac pulled a face. "Want some tea?"

"Thanks." Methos looked around but there was nowhere to sit but a grass mat or the bed. He stayed standing while Mac did his magic.

"I guess we got off on the wrong foot," Mac said, handing the bowl to him. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Methos asked, blowing on the hot liquid. "For believing Joe, or not believing in me?"

"I didn't ask Joe to lie to me, or to you!" Mac said angrily.

"You were bloody sure he was telling the truth though, weren't you? I mean, I came back to Paris, I knew you were missing, I knew what had happened. What possible reason did you give yourself for my going away?"

Mac gaped at him. "It's...." He stopped, and Methos' temper flared a little.

"What, Duncan? What I always do? I don't think so, Highlander."

"I thought you were protecting yourself," Mac retorted.

Methos carefully put the porcelain cup down. "Yes, of course. Silly me. Well, I'd best be off now." He walked to his bag but quicker than he could move, Mac had his hand on his arm to stop him.

"Methos! Where are you going?"

"Protecting myself, MacLeod. I've been back in Paris for two hours and you've already hurt my feelings, insulted me, and upset one of my closest friends. I mean, I'm such a trivial person - that's more than enough reason for me to leave, don't you think?"

"Don't be idiotic, Methos," Mac said, letting his arm go and stepping back.

"I'm an idiot? Okay, maybe - but I'd rather be that than a self-centred, selfish, overbearing, purblind oaf who thrashes about and spews out insults before he has any idea what's going on!"

Mac blinked under the abuse. "What?"

Methos sighed. "MacLeod - you need to apologise to Joe. You need to apologise to me. And for someone who prides himself on looking after his friends, I think you could have done better by all of us than letting us worry ourselves sick over what happened to you for a year. Do you know Joe literally lost years off his life expectancy because of that? Because of you leaving him to deal with Richie's death on his own? The man was drinking himself to death when I got back last year. What did he ever do to you?"

"For a start, he kept you away from me," Mac said hoarsely, the pain clear in his voice. Methos didn't allow himself to be touched by it.

"For a very good reason, one I happen to agree with."

"He interfered with the Game! He had no right!" Mac yelled, and now it was Methos' turn to blink.

"Oh, MacLeod, you are one screwed up son of a bitch. I'm going."

"Methos!" Mac shouted, but Methos never turned back.

He only called over his shoulder. "Talk to Joe, and make it right, Highlander."   
 

 

* * *

Stupid bloody man, Methos cursed as he settled into his room, dumping the bag, and stripping his travel worn clothes off. He had a good idea that Mac's last objection was plucked out of the air - what Mac really hated was facing the fact that he, for once, was the one who had failed in his duty towards his friends. Methos was too tired and pissed off to deal with Mac or Joe and knew with a shower and a nap, he would feel a lot better disposed towards both of them. He still did resent what Joe had done - the sleepless nights and the nagging worry of the past months had not exactly been fun, not to mention the fact he had just given up a well-paid job that he liked to hare back to look after people who didn't need it - but he was a big boy and would get over both the resentment and the worry. MacLeod was more of a problem, and Methos just did not want to think about him until his brain was in the same time zone as his body.

He showered for what was close to half an hour, towelled off and fell onto the comfortable bed in the nude, snuggling deep in the warm duvet. The lower temperatures in Paris convinced his body it was night time and he was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes. It was not a peaceful sleep - for the first time in nearly a year, one of the horrific dreams which had so plagued him after his escape from BioKnight's clutches returned, and he woke yelling, sweat and tears pouring in equal measure down his face. He huddled under the blankets until his breathing calmed, then decided he really needed a drink. He broke open the minibar and broached a Scotch, gulping back the burning liquid. The room was warm, but he still felt chilly - fortunately the hotel provided a fluffy bathrobe which he took advantage of. He poured another drink then switched on the television, more for the sound than anything else. He smiled a little, remembering that Aussie TV was only marginally better than French, but he already missed the twang and the blunt, slightly unsophisticated presenters.

He forced his mind back to the issue in hand. Mac. God, he had got hard enough to drill a hole in concrete when he had seen him on the quay - a Highlander in full spate was a magnificent sight, and his anger had made the big Scot's eyes flash like polished agate. The short hair and the weight loss made him look like something off the cover of GQ. Methos sighed - it looked like eighteen months of celibacy wasn't going to be ended any time soon. He loved MacLeod, but sometimes he had a helluva time liking the sulky sod.

Another sigh, and the end of his drink, before he pulled out his Powerbook and downloaded his latest emails. Reading them, he snorted in disgust. Fucking typical - Adam Pierson had to struggle along on tuppence ha'penny an hour, but Benjamin Pierce had to beat work off with a stick. Rereading the message, he considered, then picked up his mobile and called Le Blues Bar. Mike answered - he said Joe was up in his flat again, and that MacLeod was with him. That wasn't necessarily good news, Methos thought, frowning at his watch - he'd been asleep for five hours. Had Mac been haranguing Joe that long?

He redialled and Joe picked up on the second ring. He sounded less than enthusiastic to hear from Methos, confirming the old man's suspicions. "Listen, Joe, I've been asked to Leiden for a few days to work at the Antiquities Museum there. Will you be okay?"

"I've been getting on just fine on my own up to now, Benjamin," Joe said heavily.

"I know you have," Methos said patiently. "Is MacLeod still with you?"

A pause. "Sure - seems to be my day to waste time yacking to Immortals."

Oookay, Methos thought. I can take a hint. "Well, I'll get in touch when I get back. Will you tell Mac?"

"Sure. Have fun." Then Joe hung up.

Bugger. Methos considered going back to the barge, but then thought, fuck it. He'd put himself out enough for one week. Joe was fine, MacLeod was safe, and his presence appeared to be not desired. He replied to his colleague in Leiden, booked a flight, and then called room service for supper.

Sometimes, he thought, I just don't know why the hell I bother.

 

* * *

The business in Holland took two weeks, not the few days he'd been told it would, but Methos didn't mind. Leiden was its old, elegant self, and he entertained serious thoughts about settling there and accepting the post he was offered, in between wishing he was back in the Queensland heat, and missing the hell out of MacLeod and Joe. You're losing your grip, Methos told himself sternly. One brief interlude with the Scot nearly two years ago and you don't know what to do with yourself any more. That alone was nearly enough to make him head south again, but instead he gritted his teeth and flew back to Paris, wondering what had bred up his hitherto unsuspected but apparently foot wide streak of masochism.

He didn't rush to Mac or to Joe. He took his time, booking into a hotel, and arranging a decent car before driving down to the riverside. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Mac was apparently away again, since the barge was shut up. He'd promised Jaap that he would drop some books into a small museum on the way to Joe's so he killed his two birds and drove over. The curator kept him chatting rather longer than he wanted, and it was with a sigh of relief that he headed back over to the carpark.

Shit, he thought, as he felt the Buzz. He looked around.

"Well, well, look who we have here. The good Dr. Adams - if that's what you call yourself now."

"Morgan Walker," Methos said with disgust. Of all the bloody people ....

"We have some unfinished business," Walker said.

Let it go, you fool, Methos said to himself. "I don't think so."

"You were a coward then. You're still a coward," Walker sneered

Oh for heaven's sake - try it on MacLeod. "And you are as charming as ever," Methos retorted.

Walker was not content merely to sneer. "Shall we find a quieter spot?"

Not in this millennium or the next, laddie, Methos thought. "Maybe another time." He hadn't been prepared to die for the sake of an already murdered lover 200 years ago, and he sure as hell wasn't ready now.

The other Immortal would not be dissuaded. "Now," he insisted.

Methos gestured to the busy carpark. "You're not going to make a scene, are you?" He used Walker's brief confusion as the chance to leave.

 

* * *

Dammit, dammit, dammit, he cursed. Why the bloody hell does Morgan bloody Walker have to turn up now? Methos was sure someone would have killed the arrogant creep by now - why doesn't MacLeod kill all the bad guys, he thought sourly. One thing was for certain - if Walker knew he was in Paris, he was going to go somewhere else, but first he needed to know where Walker was actually based now. No point in upping sticks all over again if the other Immortal was only passing through. Joe will tell me, he thought - it never occurred to him that the Watcher would refuse, and when Mike told him that Joe had stepped out, he let himself into the back room where Joe kept his laptop without a single twinge of conscience. He'd only just got into the system when Joe returned, and was startled by his unfriendly shout of surprise.

"Hey!"

Uh, oh, Methos thought. Maybe I should have waited until he got back

"Oh, hi Joe. Uh... hey, missed you too. I ... I'll just be a minute."

"What the hell are you doing?"

What does it look like, Methos thought in irritation, but wasn't going to provoke his annoyed friend. "I'm looking for something."

"I can see that. Where've you been?"

Oh - was that it? he wondered. He hadn't been in touch while he had been in Holland, which was, on reflection, a mistake. "Here and there. There mostly. Hey, I stopped by the barge. Where's MacLeod?"

"You are unbelievable." Joe slammed the laptop closed, nearly catching Methos' fingers.

_I'm_ unbelievable? he thought angrily but he bit down on the retort. "So, uh... MacLeod?"

"He's in London. Claudia Jardine's playing the Albert Hall." Leaving Joe on his own - and from the sound of it, after having not exactly rebuilt his bridges with the mortal.

Methos decided to spill the truth. "I'm looking for Morgan Walker, Joe."

Joe glared at him. "You know, the Chronicles are not your personal Rolodex." Excuse me, Methos thought, blinking in surprise. Who the hell set up this computer system? "You find another way to hunt him."

Methos nearly laughed out loud. "Hunt?! I don't want to hunt him!" Jesus, Joseph - I've known you more than a decade. I don't do hunting.

It was like talking to a brick wall. "Oh no, you want to send him flowers," Joe said sarcastically, and if the guy had been an Immortal, he'd have been fenestrated by now, Methos thought, with increasing exasperation at Joe's strange antagonism towards him.

"No," he explained patiently, "I want to keep the hell away from him."

"Really. So what'd you do to him?"

Goddamn the man! All Methos wanted to do was to continue being the same height he'd been for five thousand years - why the hell was Joe giving him such grief?

"Look - it was a long time ago, okay? I was working as a doctor and I treated one of Walker's slaves - at my own expense, I should add, that tight-fisted bastard didn't believe in health care for his possessions - and he took it the wrong way."

Joe looked sceptical. "You mean you slept with his woman, don't you?"

Methos' eyes narrowed. "I accepted an offer from a very attractive young lady who was his slave, yes. And Walker murdered her for it then Challenged me. I declined to give the guy my head or the satisfaction."

"So you want to use the Watcher records to avoid fighting him?"

"If you wouldn't mind terribly," Methos said with a trace of sarcasm.

Joe snorted with disgust. "You gotta be out of your mind."

"Come on, Joe," Methos pleaded. He really didn't have time for this.

"Look, just 'cause you couldn't keep it in your pants 200 years ago, you expect me to turn over the Chronicles?"

"That was the basic idea, yes."

"I'll bet it was," Joe said, and this time Methos couldn't hold his temper in as much as he liked.

"Come on! You'd do it for MacLeod!"

"You know, I know MacLeod. You see, I know who he is; I know what he is. As far as you're concerned..."

Methos was almost more shocked than angry. "What's that supposed to mean?" After what he'd done for this guy?

"Look, let's make this real simple: I'm a Watcher. You're an Immortal. It's not my job to make your life easier."

And it was then clear. MacLeod had been delivering some rather pointed messages in Methos' absence, and he was copping the fallout. It made him mad enough to spit. "Your Watcher oath? Oh yeah, heaven forbid that you'd get involved with an Immortal. Would compromise your precious ethics, wouldn't it? Oh, providing, of course, it's possible to do that with a hypocrite," he grated out, and took a small measure of satisfaction from the anger in Joe's eyes.

"Get out." Joe's voice was like ice. Methos took care to leave with his usual saunter, but inside he was seething. Was he missing something in all this? How did he go from hero to zero so fast in his so-called friend's opinion? Oh, fuck them all, he thought as he flounced into his rented car and drove off.

He checked out of his hotel, and altered his booking of the car. He owned a little chapel a hundred kilometres outside of Paris and while it lacked some of the rudimentary comforts, it was holy ground and that at the moment was the only thing he cared about. It would give him time to grovel to Dean Byrnes and hopefully seen him back down under by the end of the week. Sod it - if they wouldn't have him back, he'd just fly back anyway.

He needed to collect some things from his storage, and deposit his latest backups before he went to his long-empty refuge so he drove to the edge of town and signed out a few basic household items. He was loading them into the back of the Range Rover when a familiar but unexpected vehicle approached. He ignored it but Joe came over.

"Hey, where're you going?"

Give the man credit for his nerve, Methos thought sourly. "Next stage out of Dodge. Listen, I hate long good-byes." And I'm real tired of being your whipping boy when MacLeod goes off his rocker, and vice bloody versa.

Joe didn't seem to be listening, and Methos realised that the bluesman was distracted. "I'm really worried about something."

"Aren't we all."

"Her name is Amy Thomas. She's a new Watcher. She's supposed to check in with me every four hours and she hasn't called."

Hmmm - that is interesting, Methos thought, but he pretended indifference. "I'd like to help, Joe, but I've got a plane to catch," he lied, figuring he had already given up enough personal information for one day."

"She's watching your guy," Joe burst out, and Methos was puzzled, lost in wondering who Amy Thomas was and why Joe had his nappy in a knot over her.

"What guy?"

"Morgan Walker."

Fuck _it._ "So you don't know he has Amy," Methos asked carefully.

"And I don't know he doesn't."

Methos was keeping a surreptitious eye on events down the road, but he acted nonchalant. "Get your Watcher buddies to help you."

"You know they're not going to if there's an Immortal involved," Joe said in exasperation.

Methos shrugged. "Call the cops."

"Oh yeah,' Joe said sarcastically. "'Oh, officer, I'm looking for this Watcher. She's following this guy who lives forever. And now she's disappeared.'"

"Well, you'll think of something." He really didn't like what he was seeing ...

"Methos!" Joe yelled, and dragged away from his observations, Methos got snippy.

"What do you want, Joe?!" he shouted back. "Oh, now you need my help. I'm an Immortal, you're a Watcher, but we're in league together? Sounds a lot like interference to me."

"Are you through?"

Methos almost smiled. He never did have much success in baiting Joe. "Yes. For the moment. I have other concerns." He carefully didn't look at the van.

Joe couldn't see. "Yeah? Like what?"

"Like the car down the street. Don't look. Pulled up when you got here; it hasn't budged since." To his astonishment, Joe pulled out a gun. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What do you think?"

Goddammit! This was going to end with him getting killed, he just knew it!

"Joe," Methos warned, "I wouldn't advise ..."

In one ear and out the other with mortals, he thought as Joe and their watchers began firing. Joe had put himself in the line of fire, and instinctively (an instinct Methos was later going to talk to very sternly, he promised), he threw himself in front of the bullets. 'Bloody. Hell,' he groaned to himself. 'Hate this ...' And as he died, he realised he was no longer going to be able to avoid Morgan Walker.

 

* * *

Well, this was familiar, he thought wearily, the last flickers of the unwanted Quickening still teasing his skin and making him itch all over. Another dead Immortal, another grimy factory. And another soul rattling around in his head - he hadn't wanted the creep inside him 200 hundred years ago and he didn't want him now, but it was too late. He lifted his head and realised he was being watched from a safe distance by Joe ... and his daughter. A smile tugged at his mouth - he was looking forward to teasing Joe more about this. Then the smile died. Or not, he thought. Amy didn't exactly look friendly.

"Are you okay?" Joe asked, limping over. He was still carefully avoiding naming him, Methos noted with approval as he gratefully accepted the assistance to stand.

"Yeah. We should get out of here, Joe."

The Watcher looked uncomfortable and glanced back at the young woman who was still glaring at the older man. "Listen, if you two give me a lift back to my car, I'll make my own way back to Paris." There was no mistaking the relief on Joe's face as he nodded.

"Amy," Joe beckoned. The girl walked over with her arms crossed. "We're getting out of here - is there anything you need to collect?"

She shook her head, still keeping a wary eye on Methos. "My bag's just over there. Joe, you'd better ...."

"I'm on it, hon." Methos saw her wince. Joe stepped aside to call the clean up crew which left Amy and Methos looking at each other.

"So. Big adventure for girl watcher," he said lightly.

"I should thank you," she said, and he couldn't resist teasing a little - she looked such a prissy kid.

"Well, feel free."

"What?"

"To thank me."

She scowled. "You know you could get Joe in a lot of trouble by hanging around with him."

"You should bless your cotton socks I did or you would be one very dead Watcher."

"I wouldn't even have been in this position if you and my ...."

"Daddy?" he teased.

" _Supervisor_ ," she said emphatically, "weren't violating his Watcher oath."

"Tell me, have you had that rod up your bum since birth, or did they surgically implant it?"

She clamped her lips together and stalked off to collect her stuff. You are such a bastard, Methos told himself happily.

Joe came back over and saw the pair had separated. "What did you say?" he asked accusingly.

"Me? I was just getting to know your daughter."

"Look, lay off about that," Joe said fiercely. "She's not real happy about it, okay?"

"I'm sorry, Joe. I was just having a bit of harmless fun, or so I thought."

Joe's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I know, and after today I'm the last person who should be reaming your butt out over anything. Let's get out of here - we can talk when you get back to Paris. Where are you going to be staying?"

Methos was surprised by the question. "I hadn't thought about it - this morning I was on my way out of town."

"Then you're staying with me," Joe said firmly.

"What about Amy?"

"She'll disappear as soon as we get back, I know. Methos," he said quietly. "I'd really appreciate it."

"Okay. Thanks, Joe." He put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Let's go," he said loudly enough for Amy to hear.

 

* * *

The longish drive back to the Range Rover was conducted in a frigid silence that bothered Joe a lot more than it bothered Methos, and he didn't envy the two Watchers as they travelled back from Chartres to Paris. For his own part, he was glad to escape, and he certainly wasn't going to be hurrying back. He wanted to give Joe plenty of time to clear Amy away before he walked in.

He thought about the blues man's strange behaviour over the day, and realised that the angry defensiveness in the bar was almost certainly the result of Amy, coming on top of MacLeod's little lecture. Having an explanation made him feel a lot better - Joe had behaved like they were almost strangers, but now Methos knew what was occupying the guy's mind, it was hardly surprising. Methos was just grateful that Joe's Watcher oath hadn't prevented him staying friends with one Adam Pierson, despite that individual's necessary deceptions and past failings.

It was well past midnight when he got back to Paris, and if he hadn't known Joe would worry, he would have checked into a hotel rather than disturb the Watcher. He used the key he had been given a year ago and let himself in to the flat. Joe was still up, to his surprise. "I'm sorry it's so late ..." Methos apologised.

"Nah, forget it. Do you want a drink?"

"Is the Pope a Catholic?" Methos said, dumping his bags on the floor.

"Last time I looked. Here." Methos gratefully accepted the whiskey and slumped into the other armchair.

"Hell of a day, Joe."

"Everything's okay now."

Something in his voice made Methos look up. "Is it? How's Amy?"

Joe looked tired. "Truth? Madder than stink. I had to listen to the whole 'you call yourself a Watcher' lecture the whole way back. And yesterday she was crapping at me because she wasn't allowed to do anything about Walker. Go figure."

"The joys of fatherhood. Just be grateful you weren't around for the wild teenage rebellions."

"I don't think I could ever be grateful for missing out on having a kid, Methos."

The two men looked at each other, and Methos ached for the deep pain he saw in the other's grey eyes. "Joe," he said gently, "give it time. Let her get to know you. Are you seeing her again?"

"Tomorrow. She said she'd come by."

A long silence. "Are you ready for that?" Methos asked quietly.

"I don't know. But I've left her on her own for a long time, I gotta be there for her now." Methos saluted him with his glass, but there was nothing he could say.

Joe stared down at his own drink. "Methos, about today ... you know why I had to ... she's my daughter ..."

"It's all right, Joe. I understand. I'd have done the same thing. Family is family," he said with a twisted grin, and even Joe smiled. "Besides, no harm, no foul."

"And you know what I said about the Chronicles ..."

"Listen, I was out of line there, Joe. I just forget sometimes I'm no longer a Watcher. Old habits and all that."

Joe snorted. "You don't forget, Methos. Anyway, you're well out of it."

"You sound disillusioned, Joseph."

"Well, fuck, Methos - after Shapiro and Horton, after what Amy said yesterday and today, yeah, you bet I'm disillusioned. This wasn't the gig I signed up for and I'm getting a little sick of being told who I can and cannot associate with."

"What did Duncan say to you?"

Joe grinned sourly. "You know what he said. 'Keep outta the Game, Dawson'," he said in a fair imitation of the Scot's deep voice. "'You don't hide people from me.' "

"What, again?" Methos joked, having heard about Mac's previous breach with Joe over this very issue. "MacLeod was just pissed off because he's the bad guy in this story, Joe."

"You're telling me. But you know us ordinary mortals don't hold a candle to the Millennial Champion."

"You can hold the train, and I'll carry the sceptre as he passes before the adoring masses." Joe laughed. "He'll settle down."

"Seriously, Methos - why was he so mad? I mean, you guys are friends but it was like I'd shot him in the back ..."

"Again," Methos couldn't resist adding.

"You know what I'm talking about," Joe said quellingly. "Did something happen while you two were on the island? I know you patched up your differences, but Mac never seemed to care before if you were here or not."

"Joe ..."

"Methos - I'm still a Watcher."

"If you think I want to give you more material for his Chronicles, you're out of what's left of your mind, old man."

"I didn't mean that," Joe said exasperatedly. "I meant, I'm a trained observer. Something's up. Now give."

Methos stood and poured himself another Scotch. Joe refused when he waved the bottle at him. "This is private."

"And we're friends."

"Are we, Joe? Are you sure? You weren't this morning."

Joe stiffened at the jibe. "I guess I deserve that. Okay, I understand. It's none of my business."

Methos sat again and rubbed his face. Gods, he was tired. Walker's Quickening was still settling. He hadn't taken a head since Bordeaux. "Mac never told you what happened then."

"There wasn't time. Amanda was around, then there was that business with Byron ..."

_"What_ business with Byron?" Methos said sharply.

"You didn't hear? MacLeod took his head."

"No, I didn't hear, Joe, seeing how, as you pointed out, I am no longer a Watcher," he said acidly. "Was Mac in a bad mood, or does he just have a thing against classic poetry?"

Joe was obviously puzzled. "What's the matter, Methos? I didn't know you knew Byron."

"Why did MacLeod kill him? Was he Challenged?"

"Byron got a young kid killed - a musician, one of my finds. Filled him up with heroin and Mike choked on his own vomit. I'm not sorry he's dead," Joe said in a hard voice.

"So Mac was doing his Judge Dredd impersonation again. Terrific. One of the greatest poets that's ever lived and Mac wipes him out."

"Methos, the guy was a loser - a total creep. If he was a friend ...."

"He was my _lover,_ Dawson," Methos said through gritted teeth. "And if Mac is going to kill every immortal he meets who's slept with me, then I guess he must be measuring his own neck about now!"

The shocked silence from the Watcher told Methos that Joe hadn't even suspected. "You better start from the top," Joe finally said.

 

* * *

Joe listened without comment to Methos telling him about the shared Quickenings. "So you two are bonded by that?"

"No, that would be the sex," Methos said with an attempt at a joke. Joe just pulled a face. "I take it you don't approve. I don't think you should worry ..."

"Hell, it's not that I don't 'approve', you idiot! But ... Jesus, if I'd known that ... Methos, I'm sorry as hell about this last few months - I get why Mac was so mad at me now."

"Well, I don't. It's not like we're exclusive or anything - when I left Paris, Amanda had her tongue half way down his throat. We fucked, he's basically straight, that's it."

Joe looked at him shrewdly. "Uh huh. So this isn't the reason you haven't had a date in two years?"

"How the hell would you ...?" He worked it out. "You bastard! You've had a Watcher on me!" He stood up and thought seriously about leaving. Fuck it, I can sleep in the bloody car.

"Simmer down, Methos. Look - I couldn't pretend you didn't exist, not after Bordeaux and the rest of it. But they don't know who you are, other than 'Benjamin Pierce'. Besides - I liked knowing how you were. I've pulled them off you now."

"I don't appreciate being spied on. I thought we were friends."

"But I'm also a Watcher, and you're an Immortal. Methos - you know the score. Don't give me this shit. Please?"

Joe looked at him pleadingly, and Methos couldn't stay mad. He was too tired too for a start and when he looked at his watch, he realised why. "All right. Look - it's 2 am. Let's call it a night. We can talk about all this tomorrow."

Methos pulled out the blankets and made up the couch. Joe used the bathroom before taking off his prostheses and going to bed. Once he was safely under the covers, the bluesman called out. "Just don't say anything incriminating in your sleep, Methos. There's only so much I can keep out of the records."

"You want me to hide your legs, Dawson?"

 

* * *

He woke sweating and gasping, his stomach roiling, and he was running to the bathroom to throw up before he was fully awake. Fuck, he thought, heaving. Bloody Quickenings. Bloody nightmares. He hugged the toilet for a couple of minutes until he was sure he wouldn't embarrass himself then stood and washed his mouth out. He knew it wasn't just the Quickening - or rather, it was the Quickening bringing back memories and feelings from the time he spent as an unwilling lab rat on Corsica. Just his luck, he grimaced, that he took the head of someone with a very similar attitude to human beings as BioKnight.

He staggered out of the bathroom, intent only on trying to get back to sleep, but he heard Joe calling him softly.

He went over to the bed. "I'm here."

"Are you okay?"

"Just a little night terror, nothing to worry about." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Sorry I woke you up.

Joe pushed himself upright and switched on the light. "Still bad, huh?" Joe had seen Methos in the grips of nightmares before and Methos had told the Watcher a little of what had happened on Corsica - enough at least for the mortal to understand what was tormenting the old man.

"Not really. I hardly had any nightmares in Australia."

"But here?"

The guy was too fucking observant for his own good, Methos thought. "One or two. Several if you must know. But it's the Quickening tonight."

"And before that?"

"I don't know, Joe. Maybe just seeing Mac again - or fighting with him. I don't know, and I don't want to think about it. I'm all right."

"If you say so, my friend. But I don't want you staying in any damn hotels while you're in Paris. You shouldn't be alone any more."

"I'm always alone." Methos had meant it to sound light, and hated the miserable pathos that emerged instead. "Joe...."

"It's okay, Methos." To his astonishment, Joe patted his hand. "Go on back to bed. And look - if you want to talk, I ain't exactly going anywhere."

Methos squeezed the mortal's hand back. "Neither am I. Goodnight."

 

* * *

They didn't have the luxury of sleeping in - Joe had to open up the bar since he had just run off and left Mike to deal with it to go chasing after Amy. He told Methos he couldn't push his employee too far if he wanted to keep him, and he did. "But hey, you get some more rest. You look like you need it."

Methos yawned and stood. "No, I'm up. Want me to fix breakfast while you shower?"

He made them both toast and coffee and thought he really needed a shower too. He looked about the flat where he'd stayed the previous year and was pleased to see it hadn't descended again into the chaos Joe's bout of grief-induced drinking had caused. The mortal was looking after himself and that was what Methos needed to see.

"So when's MacLeod back?" he asked as Joe sat down to eat.

"Not sure - today, tomorrow. He didn't say - Claudia's concert was Monday, but I think he had things to do in town."

"And Amanda is where?"

"Egypt. And no, I don't know why and I'm sure I don't want to know why." Methos grinned - he bet the Egyptians were wishing about now they were in the same state of blissful ignorance. "What are you going to do with yourself now?"

"I was thinking of going back to Australia actually. They were pretty reluctant to let me leave."

Joe regarded him steadily. "Running away from the problem, Methos?"

"Not in the slightest, Dawson," Methos said coolly. "It's patently obvious that Mac doesn't need me, you're fine and you've got a daughter to get to know. I liked it out there. Give me one reason to stay."

"Your friends are all here."

"I had friends out there."

"Your _best_ friends, Methos."

"Think highly of yourself, don't you? Look, if you don't get downstairs you may as well not bother opening at all today."

Joe levered himself up. "Don't think I don't know that was you changing the subject, you old bastard. I'll talk to you later."

"What time is Amy coming?"

"Dunno. This afternoon sometime. Will you be around?" Joe peered at him with undisguised hopefulness.

"If you want, yes. I don't think she'll be too pleased."

"Aw, fuck her, Methos!" Joe expostulated. "You saved her goddamn life yesterday - if she can't deal with that, then maybe I don't want her around."

Methos sat back, slightly stunned. "You know that's possibly the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Joseph?"

Joe grunted. "Well don't get used to it. And don't leave your towels on the floor - I trip over them."

"Yes, boss. Now shoo."

Grumpily, Joe did just that. Methos had a long, hot shower, more coffee and read the days old newspapers hanging about the flat while his laundry went through the machine. He realised he was scanning the academic vacancy section with more than just passing curiosity, and put the papers down with a sigh. What was he going to do? He had thought once MacLeod had returned safe and well he would feel more at ease, more able to move on without the worry, but instead, things were more unsatisfactory than they had been while he'd been in Brisbane.

He had to stop this, he thought. Brooding about a man who would never be his completely - or even at all - was unproductive and likely to lead to nasty side effects like losing his head instead of his heart. So, decide, Methos - where do you want to live? Paris, he answered himself. He'd missed it and he'd missed Joe, and while the Australian continent was going nowhere, Joe was only going to be around for fifty years or so at the most. Even in a year he was perceptibly, if infinitesimally older in his appearance, and who knew what would happen to him if Methos went away again. No, Paris, or at least Europe it was. For now. Maybe he'd take that job up in Leiden - it was close enough to drop over to France every couple of weeks.

It was nearly three o'clock before he was done puttering and wandered down to the bar. Joe was in deep conversation with Amy so Methos took up a discreet position at the back of the bar and tried not to listen. It seemed to be going better than might have been hoped although Joe looked tense and Amy not exactly delirious with joy. And now she was going, Joe staring after her with a wistful look that that made him look much older than his years.

Time for a little TLC, Immortal style, Methos thought. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar and a couple of glasses, and brought them over to Joe's table.

"She'll be back," he said gently, pouring a couple of stiff ones out.

"And how do you know?" Joe asked sardonically.

"'Cause I'm very old and wise." Joe just looked at him then laughed a little, which was Methos' intention. "To someday," he said, lifting his glass. Joe returned the toast in silence, and took a long sip of the spirit.

"I guess it wasn't so bad - she's still talking to me."

"And how many fathers can say that? Joe, she must want to have you around or she'd never have mentioned that she knew about it. She just needs to work out where you fit. I mean, you're her boss and her father. That's not easy for anyone."

"The voice of experience?"

"I've been a dad a few times, yeah. Can't say I was ever that good at it, but I know the basics. You're lucky."

"To have my own daughter?"

Methos nodded. "I've often wondered what it would be like to have my own - I mean my very own - child. Whether it would be better or worse than other people's."

"Amy's not mine - only by blood. In everything else, she belongs to the man who raised her."

"Better than nothing at all."

Methos sipped at his Scotch while Joe was lost in his thoughts, but looked around when he felt the Buzz. "Company," he warned.

"Relax, it's Mac."

It was indeed the Highlander. He frowned as he saw Methos. "Oh, you're back."

"And hello to you, Duncan," Methos said sarcastically, but immediately regretting his tone. "How was London?" he said more amiably.

"Wet and miserable. How's things been here? Any problems?"

Joe looked at Methos who made sure he had his most innocent expression on. It was Joe's story, not his. "Problems? Why would there be a problem because you're out of town for a few days?"

"No reason. I was just asking, Joe. No need to bite my head off."

"Yeah, well, everything's quiet."

"Good. Methos - we need to talk."

"The four scariest words in the English language. You're in luck, MacLeod, an opening has just come up in my diary. I can spare you oh, say, ten minutes?" looking at his watch exaggeratedly.

"Can you spare me this afternoon and dinner instead?" Methos lifted his eyebrow. "Please?"

Methos looked at Joe who shrugged. "Hey, I'm not your keeper."

"All right, Mac, but the tab is on you. Don't wait up, Joe," he said, daring the Watcher to smirk or do anything to indicate what was going on in that evil little mind of his.

 

* * *

The two Immortals walked in silence outside the bar to Mac's Citroen. "So who was it?" Mac asked.

"MacLeod?' Methos said, puzzled.

"You've taken a head. Who was it?"

"How the hell do you know that?" Methos asked in frank astonishment.

"You look like shit, Methos. I can see it in your eyes," Mac said simply.

"Chalk one up to the Highlander. No one important. A hangover."

"Are you okay?" Mac asked as they got into the car. "Nightmares?"

"I thought we were going to argue," Methos said weakly.

Mac grinned. "Oh, aye, no doubt about it. But I'm worried about you too." He started the engine.

"There's a lot of that going around," Methos said lightly. "Listen, no offence, but I really don't want to go to the barge - I gave up sitting on mats a long time ago."

"How about the Louvre? It's warm, and public - no chance of an inadvertent beheading."

"No chance of meeting any of my old lovers then," Methos said maliciously.

Mac sighed. "Joe told you about Byron."

"Why did I have to hear it from him, MacLeod? You couldn't find five minutes to send me an email. 'Dear M stop. Have killed your old boyfriend stop. Bloody poets stop.'"

"It was nothing to do with his poetry. Methos, someone had to do it. He was killing mortals and didn't give a shit about it."

"And you know this for certain, do you? You saw Byron forcibly inject that kid with smack?"

"You weren't there, you don't know what you're talking about. For what it's worth, I gave him every chance I could."

"Oh what? Something like 'Stay away from da kid, boy, or I'll come after ya?' I can see that working real well on Byron."

Mac slammed his fist on the wheel. "Dammit, Methos, can't we argue about us? I Challenged Byron, that's what we do. I don't need a reason, but I thought I had a good one. And you weren't there. Joe was pretty upset about Mike Paladini. He felt like Mike's death was his fault. That's not fair."

"No, it wasn't. All right, I won't talk about Byron. But for the record? If it wasn't you, Mac, I think I might have gone after the bastard who killed him and taken his head."

Mac risked a quick head turn at that. "Okay. Point taken. Methos, when I took his Quickening, I knew he'd been someone you cared about. There was nothing I could have - or would have - done differently. You have to accept that. If not, then I guess we better find somewhere quiet and fight this one out."

"Not today, MacLeod." Methos hoped he made it clear the matter was far from settled, but in truth he had no appetite for arguing with the Scot. He was too busy drinking up the man's warm presence. Gods, he thought - he looks edible. "Why did you cut your hair? A mourning ritual?"

That earned him another quick look. "I knew you'd understand - Joe didn't. Yes. And a new beginning. Preparing for battle."

"And it makes you look like a million quid."

Mac laughed. "If you say so, old man. Here we are," he said, pulling into the carpark.

Methos shivered as he got out. "Still missing the sunshine?" Mac asked.

"Yes. Leiden was freezing."

"Sorry you came back?"

Methos opened his mouth automatically to say of course he was, but he looked into Mac's dark brown eyes and was lost all over again. "Not right this minute, no."

Mac smiled, and Methos' heart flipped a little. Damn him, why did he have to be so bloody gorgeous? And affectionate? Methos shuddered a little as Mac put his hand on his shoulder. "Easy, old man," Mac teased, fully aware of his effect on his friend. Methos shrugged him off irritably.

"Don't paw me, MacLeod," he said then stalked off to the exit.

He'd recovered his poise by the time they'd got inside the museum, and he was in a better mood when they headed for the Greek antiquities, dodging the crowds around the better-known pieces. He was aware that Duncan was watching him as he drifted among the white marble statues. "They look like ghosts," he said.

"Because they're not painted?"

"Exactly. But I've got used to it by now - it's been a long time since I saw the originals. So what did you want to talk about?"

"Give you one guess?"

"No, Mac, you'll have to do better than that. And just remember I'm not Dawson and _will_ run you through with a sharp object if you start any of that interfering with the game crap on me."

"I didn't .... God, is that all he remembers?" Mac seemed genuinely aggrieved.

"Talk to me, MacLeod." He sat on a bench in a corner and looked at the Scot, wishing he could strip him naked and keep him that way for a hundred years.

"I had time to think - while you were Holland. You were right. I don't know why I thought you would have run away ... except maybe after Corsica ..."

"I wouldn't have abandoned you, Duncan. Not if I'd known about Richie."

The name took all the wind out of Mac's sails and he collapsed on to the bench next to Methos. "I'm sorry, Mac," Methos said gently. "Still hurts?"

"Yes," Mac whispered, bowing his head. "Damn I thought I was getting past this." Methos took his hand and rubbed it a little. "Look at me - I'm his murderer and I'm getting the sympathy."

"Did you mean to kill him, Duncan?"

"What? Of course not! I loved him?"

"And you didn't go to the racetrack to murder him?"

"Methos!" People were looking at him, towards the sound. "Are you trying to make me angry?" he said in a low fierce voice.

"No. But I'm trying to get you to understand that there is no blame, not from me, nor should there be from any one."

"Joe's still angry."

"Joe's angry about a lot of things, some of which are your fault, some of which are not. You didn't mean to kill your student, his friend. But you did worry him sick for a year. That's the only thing you need to apologise for."

"And to you?"

"Yes. Mac - you were angry because you thought I'd abandoned you and Joe. How do you think we felt?"

"I couldn't think about anyone else, Methos. I had only enough strength for me, and I didn't think it would be enough," Mac said quietly.

'I know." Gods, did he know.

"Are you still mad at me?" Mac did that thing with his eyes again.

"You're impossible, Duncan. No," he sighed. "But I don't know where it gets us."

"Right now? Coffee and patisseries."

They jostled with the tourists for a place to sit. "Tell me again why you chose this?' Methos asked, grimacing as he was shoved in the back.

"I ... um .. thought it might be better if we had to keep our voices down," Mac said slightly abashed.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, afraid of a good old-fashioned argument. Wonders will never cease," Methos said sardonically.

"I'm not afraid of an argument. I'm afraid..." Mac refused to look at him.

"Of what?"

"You. Hurting you. You hurting me. Methos, when Joe said ... when I thought you were gone ... I felt so dead inside."

Methos gaped, then covered his astonishment by sipping from his coffee cup. They had become close on the island, but it was accepted that Methos' feelings ran deeper than Mac's and that was fine. But what the Highlander had just come out with....

"Why does it matter?" Methos asked softly. The hubbub of the busy restaurant seemed to disappear and all that matter was what Mac said next.

"Too many, Methos. I can't lose another person. Every death takes a little part of me and ... " he plucked an imaginary handful off himself and pantomimed it drizzling through his fingers. "I'm afraid if I lost you ... there would be nothing left of me. I need you," he said with pain that went beyond normal grief clear in his deep voice.

Methos stared. "Mac," he said in a choked voice. "You will always be Duncan MacLeod. Trust me. It would take much more than what has happened to you to change that. I know, Highlander. Don't underestimate what you can endure and remain sane. Or something approximating thereto." He grinned a little, but Mac remained solemn.

"I need you," he repeated. "I can't understand it, but knowing you are all right and alive is more important to me than my own well-being. Please don't leave me again."

"Mac," Methos said gently, essaying a discreet squeeze of his fingers, "I promised I would come back, and I did."

"But you're going away again?"

"I might. The furthest I would be away would be a 24 hour flight, but I wasn't planning on going anywhere soon. You're not normally the clingy type. What about Amanda?"

"Amanda is like nitrous oxide, Methos. She takes away pain, but too much of her and we both start to choke. You're my oxygen."

"Be careful with the analogies, Mac - oxygen is highly inflammable."

Mac smiled at long last. "Aye, so it is. But we need it in the right proportion."

"Your romantic touch could do with a polish, Highlander."

"This isn't romance, old man," Duncan said fiercely. "This is about friendship, and support and understanding."

Methos died a little at his words, and realised he had imagined things that were not there. Of course it wasn't romance. He'd understood that over a year ago. Well, he could live with that. There were worse fates than having Duncan MacLeod as your best friend - if you could persuade him not to kill you, of course.

"You have all three, Mac, any time. What I owe you, I cannot repay but it is more than a debt. You are the best of us. I've looked all my life for someone as worthy as you to take the Prize, and I will do everything in my power to see you get it."

His words hurt him to say - they sounded too formal, too fucking prissy. He could see they fell short of Duncan's expectations but he wasn't feeling generous enough to console him. Denying his feelings was bad enough. Mac knew how he really felt and it wasn't enough. Well, fuck him.

Mac stiffened up. "Thank you, Methos, that means a lot to me," he said with rigid courtesy and Methos nearly laughed. It was either that or cry - and either would make him look like a fool.

"So," he said with false heartiness. "What are you planning to do? Are you settling in Paris?"

Mac started at the mundane question, but to Methos' relief, he took the gambit at face value. With a little effort, they slid into a friendly conversation which actually managed to avoid being banal. They sat for hours just talking, Mac describing in a calm manner the awful events that had led to Richie's death and what had followed once he'd returned from Malaysia. They moved location to the Louvre's restaurant for dinner, and there Mac listened as Methos described his Antipodean sojourn with unfeigned enthusiasm.

"I've never been out there," Mac said wistfully.

"It's about time you did then. I think you'd really enjoy it. And it's not like you have to worry about skin cancer or red back spider bites, is it?"

"No," Mac said with a grin. "I could go in for snake wrestling, I suppose."

"Oh, please. If I see one more bloody show about one more bloody macho 'reptile expert' chasing down and kissing some 'world's most dangerous' snake or crocodile, I swear I will hunt the bugger down and take his head. I can just imagine the poor little serpents in the outback hiding under the rocks, shivering in their skins and going ' please God, don't let Steve Irwin find me interesting!'"

Mac laughed again, which showed that the annoying Aussie's 'documentaries' had got to Europe - or perhaps only to Seacouver, since Mac no longer seemed to own a television.

The meal was good but not exceptional, and they were not disposed to linger, especially as Methos was feeling the effects of his broken night's sleep. Mac drove him back to Joe's place and bid him good night warmly. "I'll see you around?" he said hopefully.

"Oh I think you can count on that, Highlander," Methos said with forced heartiness and waved the other man off before making his way tiredly up the stairs. It had taken more out of him than he'd realised to play the role in which Mac had apparently cast him, and he thought back with longing to the few, precious days they had spent on Mac's island near Seacouver. Up there, they had been as open to each other as Methos had ever been with anyone in his whole life - more. It was if those days had never been, to see MacLeod now, Methos thought sadly. Doubtless a month or two of rampaging Amanda sex had put the boy back on the straight and narrow, pun intended.

Joe was up, reading. "How did it go?" he asked.

Methos threw his coat on the back of the armchair and flopped down. "Fine. I am apparently his rod and his staff and his very best pal."

"Yeah?"

"So he said, in very nearly those words. I almost choked up."

"Or just choked, maybe?"

"Maybe. You want a drink?"

"Nah. You go ahead. There's beer in the fridge if you want."

That sounded about perfect, Methos thought and opened a bottle. The cold sharpness suited his mood far more than brandy or whiskey would have done. "Are you okay?" Joe asked, cutting into his thoughts.

"Me? I'm peachy." He swallowed another mouthful of beer and refused to meet Joe's gaze.

"Yeah, pal, you sound it. "

Suddenly Methos was tired of his feelings being on display for one man, being deliberately ignored by another. He wanted privacy. He finished his beer then put on his coat. "I think I'd like to go for a walk, Joe. Don't wait up - I could be a while."

Joe stared at him, but didn't argue. "You watch your head, my friend."

"When did I not, Joe? See you in the morning."

The cold air bit sharply and Methos half-smiled as he shivered, remembering his Australian boss' farewell to him. It felt clean though, the right thing to clear his mind. He started to walk towards the river, three miles away and was quickly lost in his thoughts. Oh how he'd wanted to shake the Highlander and yell at him this evening - but the bright boy had probably guessed that, hence picking one of the busiest places in Paris to talk. What Methos couldn't work out was what had happened to their connection - he'd felt tied to Mac like he had felt tied to no other in his life after they had made love. His heart was in the Scot's keeping, and he'd thought Duncan knew that. But now ... maybe it was for the best, he shrugged mentally. Mac had been scarred badly by Ryan's death, and had at last perhaps come to understand that his open door policy to Immortals and mortals alike had its downside. It was a lesson Methos had worked long and hard to teach the Highlander - he could hardly complain when he himself was on the receiving end of the new wariness.

His feet took him towards the Seine, and he knew where he was headed even though he knew it was a lousy idea. The barge was unlit and quiet, solid and peaceful looking on the turgid river. Seeing the boat gave him a surprising amount of pain. He and Mac had never made love there, but they had given so much else to each other. Warmth, affection - friendship. An ease which he had thought once destroyed, and which by a miracle they had got back. He wanted that again. He wanted the easy touches. He wanted the casual acceptance by another of his kind. And damn it, he wanted the Highlander himself so badly. He could almost taste the gentle kisses on his mouth, feel the callused fingers on his flank. He remembered the ecstasy of being inside Duncan - an act of almost unimaginable trust, a gift that made him weep with joy. Would they ever share that again?

His longing made him careless, drifting too close to the barge, and suddenly there was a dark figure on the deck, holding a sword. "Methos?" his own whispered name carried across to him on the frosty air. He shrank back into the shadows, cursing his stupidity, wondering that Mac could identify him at such a distance by his Quickening alone. He dared not go to the Highlander, however much he needed to. Duncan had made it clear in which slot in his life Methos belonged, and to move from it risked the whole. He could not do that.

Duncan stood peering in the night for a moment longer, then shook his head and went back inside, leaving Methos feeling relieved and lonely. Damn you, Duncan MacLeod, he said angrily to himself, keep me or kill me. I am dying by inches here. But at the same time, Methos knew he had little choice and however romantic the notion he would not actually die from unrequited love. It just felt like he would.

He did not go home. He found a late opening bar and spent the night listening to overloud music, drinking overpriced beer and trying not to think. When the bar closed he walked again, miles and miles, until he was frozen to his core, until his heart, his mind, his shaking hands were all chilled into stillness. And only then did he hail a cab back to Joe's apartment, ready to face the new era where he had a friend but no lover in Duncan MacLeod.

 

* * *

He should, he knew, be making plans to settle down. Find an apartment, a new job - maybe a girlfriend, it had been a while since he was involved with someone (if you didn't count MacLeod and by the gods he wasn't going to do that, if it killed him). He couldn't make himself move, and Joe wasn't pushing, for which he supposed he should be grateful but, oddly, was not. Instead, he returned to the routine he'd established the previous year - working for Joe, sleeping in Joe's apartment, spending most of his free time talking to the Watcher. He wondered slightly that Joe didn't seem to mind him hanging around, but the bluesman had never seemed more content, or so it appeared to Methos.

Macleod was around of course. He came to the bar most evenings, and it was usual for him to hang about after closing for a quiet drink and a chat. But it was never just for Methos, he knew that, and accepted it. And he never indicated that he felt this was in any way less than he wanted, or that it hurt not to hug the Scot or kiss him as he left. Joe sometimes looked at him in a knowing way as MacLeod once again left with cheery words and nothing else - but Methos had millennia of practice in avoiding discussions he didn't want to have.

Tonight was different. For some reason, Joe was being unusually gullible and Methos was enjoying himself spinning a ridiculous yarn about the death of Titus Marconus. The innocent fun came to an abrupt halt with the arrival of MacLeod - Methos knew from the second he walked in that there was a problem. As he listened to Mac describe his previous encounter with Liam O'Rourke, he had to fight a burning desire to go over and smack Duncan - did the child ever bloody learn? You _don't_ walk away from psychopaths. He was distracted by his interior ramblings, but when Duncan got up to go after Amanda's kidnappers, he was right there behind him. He was a little insulted by the Highlander's surprise, and to Mac's question as to where he thought he was going, he told him that he was fond of Amanda too. He didn't know why he sounded so defensive - hell, Amanda had saved his butt at least twice now. Did Mac think he was that ungrateful?

The night got steadily worse, and the cold dread in his stomach solidified to iron when they found Joe had been kidnapped. Methos felt paralysed by fear - this was all too like his own abduction. And now Mac was going straight into the lion's den, refusing to allow Methos assist him in any way and Methos was powerless to stop him - pleading, mocking, arguing, nothing worked. "Goodbye, MacLeod" he'd said bleakly, hopelessly.

At last - a tiny chink of understanding. Mac turned and smiled a little. " I think you mean 'good luck,' don't you?"

No, you bloody fool, I don't. Methos wanted to cry, but all he could do was agree, and watch the Scot walk out to certain death.

No - I won't, he swore suddenly. Mac may have his damn honour, but when did that ever stop me? He watched Mac from a safe distance, then hailed a cab to follow.

 

* * *

All well's that ends well, he thought sardonically, watching Mac walk off, the day saved, Joe and Amanda safe and free and with heads intact. Immortal and Mortal were still buzzing from the adrenaline, as was he, and temporarily, Mac's attempted suicide was forgotten.

"Buddy, I really need a drink," Joe said, looking relieved and shattered.

"Oh, me too, Joe," Amanda said eagerly. "Methos?"

"Why don't you two head on back to the barge - get some booze. I'll go collect our noble hero and meet you there."

Joe and Amanda left then, and Methos followed Mac's last known direction. He found the Scot not far away, looking despondent. "Hey - they all want to get drunk. Sounds good to me." He took his seat on the pipe next to where Mac was sitting. "Post- Quickening blues?"

"They nearly died because of me, Methos," Mac said heavily.

"And you nearly died because of them, so you're even."

"No more," Mac said fiercely, pinning him with his gaze.

"This really isn't the time or the place, Duncan. Amanda needs you now - so does Joe. They're damn shook up. So am I," he said with complete sincerity.

"You?"

"Yes, me. Did I ever tell you that seeing you with a sword at your throat makes me queasy?"

Mac grinned. "Heaven forfend the ancient stomach should be upset by any act of mine. Okay - let's go home."

 

* * *

Amanda had bought - or otherwise obtained - a case of champagne and she and Joe were well into a bottle by the time the two men arrived. Mac accepted a glass from his girlfriend solemnly, and listened as they told him about how they had each been captured. Methos rustled up some food to go with the alcohol, and was struggling with the second bottle when Mac came and sat by him.

"You know," the Scot said quietly. "I don't know who or what you are, Methos. And I know you don't want to hear this, but you did teach me something. You taught me that life is about change, about learning to accept who you are - good or bad - and I thank you for that."

Mac's words hit him like a punch to the gut. He kept his face turned to the champagne bottle which was still proving strangely uncooperative, and made a noncommittal grunt which was all, apparently, the Highlander wanted. Mac moved over and took Amanda in his arms, and that, Methos really couldn't watch, even though in the small space they were all occupying, he couldn't help but overhear Mac's declaration of love. Words Methos had once hoped he might hear applied to him.

So this is what the end of hope feels like, he thought dully. A fixed, humourless smile seemed to have taken up residence on his face, and it was enough to allow the others to ignore him, and make whoopee. He busied himself pouring drinks, but did not drink anything himself, needing all his self-control not to shout at Mac, or kick Amanda into the Seine. It was with unspeakable relief an hour later that he heard Joe announce he was ready to go, and after Mac had hugged Joe and listened to the Watcher's heartfelt words, Methos had shaken Mac's hand formally and escaped outside, ostensibly to warm the engine up but really just to avoid any trite farewell Mac may have come out with. He did not want 'friendship' - he wanted to kiss Duncan until he passed out, and he absolutely did not want to see Amanda wrapped around the Scot, her breasts being all the passport she needed to the haven where Methos so desperately wanted to be for the rest of his long life.

Joe was in reflective mood, and wanted mainly to relive the events of O'Rourke's defeat, which suited Methos. The Watcher was well past tiddly, and needed help up the stairs as well as with removing his prostheses. He got under the covers on his bed, then looked up before Methos had a chance to guard his expression. "Oh, Methos," Joe said softly in a voice full of pity.

"Don't, Joe," he answered as lightly as he could. "Not unless you want to see a 5,000 year old man cry."

"Sit down right there," Joe said, patting the bed, and Methos obeyed. "You want to tell me specifically, or do you want me to guess?"

"It's really nothing, Joe. Just the weight of years catching up with me."

"Crap. Is it Mac? Mac and Amanda?" Methos shook his head, his throat suddenly too tight to talk. "Methos, whatever it is, you don't have to be alone."

"But I do, Joe," he said, finding his voice. "It's the only conclusion I can come to. I am meant to be alone. I want too much from people."

"You want the same as the rest of us, buddy. Love, respect. Just because you can't get it one place, doesn't mean it's not there." Joe reached out his hand, and Methos took it, glad of the contact.

He shook his head again, his vision blurry from unshed tears that were bloody well going to stay unshed, he told himself. "I've been looking a long time, Joe. Found it just a handful of times. In 5,000 years, I felt like this maybe once every five or six centuries. It was easier in the early days. I ... don't have the balls any more for the fight, I guess."

"You're gonna leave," Joe said, his grip tightening.

"I have to," Methos said softly. "I realise why I can't get my act together any more. I don't want to. And that is dangerous."

"Methos, you are wanted here. Mac loves you ..."

"As a friend, yes, I know. Same as he does you. It's not enough any more. I'm a bloody fool, but there you go."

"Methos," Joe said gently, and then he was being pulled down onto the mortal's chest, while the treacherous tears finally broke past his barriers, sobs he'd been choking back for over an hour bursting forth. It felt good, in an embarrassing way, not to hide his pain, to stop pretending that he was so terribly grownup and cool about this whole thing. He ached with a raw hurt that got worse every day - tonight was the last straw. Mac loved someone else, and he was going to keep putting himself in harm's way for no reason at all. Either way, Methos had lost him or would lose him, it was just a matter of time.

Joe just held on while he cried, a strong arm across his shoulders, not attempting to stop the flood or say anything, for which Methos was immensely grateful. He pushed himself up and wiped his face with his handkerchief. "I guess that's my stoic reputation gone for a Burton then?"

Joe snorted. "Listen, my friend, stoicism is a load of crap. Now I want you to promise me something ..."

"Joe, I have to leave. There's no other way."

"Okay, maybe so. But will you stay for one week? Just that? Tonight was rough on all of us, and maybe you'll feel better about it. I'd sure as hell feel better if you made the decision when you calmed down. If you leave like this, some one will take your head before you're ten feet from the door."

"You have a touching faith in my abilities, Dawson. But all right. It'll take me that long to organise things, and maybe you're right. I don't feel particularly rational now."

"I got news for you, pal - you're always a few apples short of a picnic."

"Spoken like a man a brick short of a barrowful himself," Methos grinned damply. He squeezed Joe's hand. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ , Methos. Don't think I don't know what I owe you after tonight."

"Enough to clear my bar tab?"

"Hey, nothing's enough for that!" Joe slipped down under the blankets. "Go on to bed, Methos. You look like crap. Things won't look so bad in the morning."

"You sure?"

"Yep - because I'm very old and wise."

Methos laughed, and it was honestly the best he had felt in hours. Maybe he did feel less desperate - at least he went to sleep with far more ease than he expected.

They both slept late - Joe had called Mike the previous evening and told him not to come in, the bar was staying closed that day. Methos woke with a start to the sound of someone pounding on the door, someone with an Immortal Presence he recognised. MacLeod, he thought, suddenly panicking. There was only one way out of the flat - and Mac was presently standing in the way.

Joe emerged from the blankets. "Wazzit?" he asked, still sleepy.

"MacLeod. Joe ...."

"You want I should tell him to get lost?"

Methos looked at him, seriously considering the offer - but realised it was already too late. "No - but maybe I want you to be my back up. Got your gun?"

Joe grinned. "You're on. Go let him in."

Methos pulled on his robe, hoping to indicate by his state of undress how ill-timed Mac's visit was. He opened the door. "Just because you don't get hangovers, Highlander, doesn't mean no one else does," he said somewhat rudely and with no preliminary.

Mac stood open-mouthed, staring at him. Methos looked down - nope, nothing hanging out that shouldn't be. "What?" he demanded.

"You're still here."

What a strange opening line. "For the moment. Are you coming in?"

Methos turned on his heels and went back into the flat. Joe was in his wheelchair and glared at their visitor. "MacLeod, I love you like a brother, but couldn't this have waited? It was rough last night."

"I'm sorry, Joe, Methos. I wanted to talk to you," Mac said, looking at the Ancient.

"You could have talked to me last night, Highlander," Methos said with a touch of asperity.

"No... I couldn't ... Methos, will you come to lunch with me?"

Methos looked at Joe who wasn't letting anything past his shuttered eyes. "Why?" Methos demanded finally. His heart was too raw to take another cosy chat being told how important he was as a friend to Mac.

"I can't talk about it here."

"Then I'm not going."

"Methos," Joe said suddenly. "Go on, will you? I could do with some more sleep."

You _bastard,_ Methos thought angrily. Manipulative mortal _bastard_. "Let me have a shower and get dressed then," he said stiffly and didn't wait for Mac to agree. He stalked into the bathroom and turned the water on hot. I can do this, he thought. A nice polite lunch, and afterwards, I'm going to put my stuff in storage, go to Charles de Gaulle and get on the very first flight out of Europe. Two hours tops.

He showered briskly and was out and dressed in ten minutes. "Okay, I'm ready. Joe, I'll see you around."

Joe's grey eyes widened. "You mean later?"

"Possibly a lot later." The two men stared for a long time, ignoring Mac's obvious puzzlement.

"Okay, buddy. I understand. Good luck." Methos knew that Joe knew. Good luck to you, my friend.

"Thanks Joe. Mac - wait." He grabbed his latest back up disks, picked up a padded pre-addressed envelope, and shoving them in, handed them to Joe. "Could you post these for me?"

"Yeah. I'll do that," Joe said unhappily.

"Let's go, Mac."

Mac led the way downstairs. "So, where to this time? Not the Louvre again."

"No - the barge."

Methos stopped dead. "Won't Amanda be there?" No way was he going to sit there watching those two canoodle.

"Amanda caught a flight to the Middle East this morning. That's why I'm late coming over - I drove her to the airport."

"So you were bored, and decided to wake us both up. Thanks a bunch, MacLeod."

Mac didn't reply, concentrating on the traffic for the fifteen minute drive to the Seine. Methos ignored him, working on calming his temper and his misery. Two days ago, he could have done this almost without any pain at all - now, it was sheer hell being in the car with Mac, and he had every intention of making this unwanted invitation pass quickly and painlessly. Not that he wanted to eat. His stomach roiled with every turn and move of the car, and his head hurt. Couldn't be a hangover - he'd only had half a glass of champagne. No, this would be terror, he thought sourly.

_"Déjà vu,"_ he said sarcastically as they parked up and he got out of the car. It was less than ten hours since he had been on the boat, gritting his teeth.

Mac looked at him over the top of the Citroen. "Methos, are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you, Highlander?"

"I don't know, but that's the third time you've call me that this morning. It usually means you're pissed off about something."

"Maybe I just wanted my beauty sleep," he said, walking up the plank and letting himself into the barge.

Mac was right behind him and put his hand on Methos' shoulder. "No, it's more than that. That's why I came around - you were angry at me last night. Was it because of O'Rourke?"

Methos turned and glared at him. "Oh, no, MacLeod. Why on earth would I be angry because you were about to commit suicide?"

"Methos, Methos ... I had to save Joe and Amanda."

"And who the hell actually saved them, huh?" he shouted. "You kneeling there with your neck stretched out or me with my gun? You're a fucking moron, you know that?"

"And you're upset about more than that."

"Says who?" he said belligerently, angry because there was nowhere he could flounce. Still no goddamn chairs - and where were they supposed to eat?

"Says me," Duncan said firmly, but gently. "Methos, I know you - know you very well, remember?"

"Oh yes?" he said sarcastically. "Why the bloody hell did you get rid of all your bloody chairs, MacLeod?"

"Because I only need the bed," Duncan said in a voice that made Methos shiver, and made him lean away from the grip Mac still had on his arm. "Methos, I haven't forgotten."

Methos yanked himself away. "Forgotten what?"

"That you love me."

Methos panicked. He did not want to go here. "I didn't think you had, but Mac, leave it alone."

"No. I don't want to. Methos, I saw you last night as you left...." As he spoke, the Highlander was walking towards him, and Methos had nowhere to go except against the wall. "... And I realised if I didn't speak to you now, you might leave and never come back."

"Why would I do that, Highlander?" He was proud that his voice was steady - his heart was pounding so hard he could hardly hear himself. His stomach was cramping bad now.

"Because you're afraid I won't ever love you back." Mac was now almost chest to chest with him, and Methos pushed him back angrily, almost tripping in his haste to escape.

"And why the hell would you? MacLeod, last night you said you didn't even know who or what I was? You don't even see me as human. We fucked, we shared Quickenings - and you still don't know I'm just a guy. Hanging on to his sanity by a thread like everyone else."

"I know that, Methos," Mac said softly, approaching him carefully as if he was a wild animal.

"Piss off, Mac," Methos snarled. "Why didn't you go after Amanda? You were groping her last night like there was no tomorrow. Telling her ... telling her ...." He couldn't say it.  _I'm not_ going to break down in front of MacLeod, he told himself. I am _not._

"Telling her I loved her? But it's the truth, Methos."

"Good for you. Good for Amanda. Mac, I'm not hungry. Want to take a rain check." Want to vomit, he thought, his stomach churning. Oh, gods! He suddenly dashed for the bathroom, the metaphor made real, and heaved up the bile that was all that was in his stomach. Mac's hand was on his shoulder and he tried to shrug it off. "Leave me alone," he mumbled into the bowl.

Mac ignored the order, instead rubbing his back, and handing him a cloth to wipe his face. Methos stood up on shaky legs. "I really have to go," he said, forcing his way past Mac. The stubborn Scot followed him and then grabbed his arm. "MacLeod, I've told you before I hate being manhandled. If you know so much about me, then you know that."

Mac ignored that too, placing both his hands on Methos, apparently unaware how panicked Methos was becoming again. He felt unable to run, but he wished he could stop the words that Mac was sure to pronounce - kindly, friendly words, designed to keep him in his life, but not too close. "Mac, please let me go," he whispered. His mouth tasted sour and his legs felt weak.

"No, Methos, I cannae, for I love you," Mac said gently, and kissed his cheek. At that, Methos' knees would no longer hold him, and he sagged. Caught by surprise, Mac only barely managed to catch him to lower him to the floor.

"Don't hurt me," Methos whispered, wondering why Mac was being so cruel as to toy with him. The Scot knelt down and touched his face.

"I won't hurt you. Oh, Methos, I'm sorry - I had no idea." So much for knowing me, Methos thought slightly hysterically.

"Could I have some water?" he asked, his croaky voice making the reason for his request plain. Mac got up and quickly filled a glass, handing it to him and sitting on the floor beside him. He wrapped his arm around Methos shoulder and took the glass away when he was done. "Thanks."

"Methos, I didn't know - this isn't just about last night?"

Methos shook his head, not trusting his voice. Mac held him closer, and his treacherous body enjoyed the warmth even as its owner rebelled against the similitude of affection. "Did my saying I loved Amanda surprise you that much?"

Methos pushed him away. "I'm going."

"No, you're not."

Anger flared blood red in front of Methos' eyes. "If you try to stop me, I will take your head."

"Try it."

Methos leapt up and pulled the Ivanhoe from its sheath, swinging almost before he was fully upright, a trick he had learned from Kronos. Mac didn't move a muscle, and the vicious sword stopped a centimetre from the Scot's neck. "You think I won't, don't you?"

"I think you can't, Methos," Mac said calmly, his eyes meeting Methos'.

"Because I love you? I killed Silas, remember?"

"Aye. Well, get on with it."

Enraged, Methos swung again but stopped once more before the deadly blade connected. "You fucking ignorant _pissant!"_ he yelled, and drove the sword through Mac's shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Mac looked down in shock, and Methos stared at the buried sword in horror. "Oh my god," he whispered. He pulled it out, and Mac grunted, holding his shoulder and sinking to his knees. Methos helped him sit, and then put pressure on the wound. "Mac - I'm sorry ..."

Mac looked up at him and smiled weakly. "Guess ... you really ... wanted to leave?" Then his head lolled as he passed out.

Methos pulled him close, cursing himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid _wanker._ What had he done? Got to get out of here, he thought. Don't want to go through another argument with Mac. He carefully slid the Highlander down flat, sheathed his Ivanhoe, and stood. Just leave, old man, he told himself. This is a mess too far.

He walked over to the kitchen to wash his hands, walked out of the barge, and then out of Mac's life.

That was the plan. He didn't even make it to the kitchen - a strong hand clamped around his ankle and refused to budge. "Methos, don't leave," Mac said, using Methos' leg to pull himself up. Methos turned to shout at him, but the pain on Mac's face made his anger melt away.

"Duncan, don't. Please. It's for the best."

"For who, old man? Me or you?"

"Both of us. Please don't make a fuss."

MacLeod's grip never wavered. "Don't, Methos. Please stay and talk to me."

Oh damn, Methos thought. Those eyes. He knelt down. "Mac, don't ... don't cry, dammit!" For that was what was happening, to his horror. He pulled Mac's head onto his chest. "Don't, Duncan. Please." He felt helpless. Everything he did seemed to hurt himself, the people he cared about. When had he lost control to this extent?

"Methos, Methos, please don't leave," Mac mumbled into Methos' sweater.

"Shhh. Don't upset yourself, Duncan. It's just been a rough day or two."

"No," Mac said fiercely, tugging his sweater hard. "I told you - I need you."

Methos stroked his face. "And I need you," he said softly. "But I can't live like this, Mac. I'm dying. I need more than you can give. I have to leave before I hurt myself, before you hurt me any more."

"I don't mean to ...."

"I know you don't. Mac, it's not your fault. You love women, you love Amanda. I understand. You're straight... urk." He suddenly found himself flat on his back underneath one very angry Highlander.

"Straight, am I?" Methos was yanked up and his lips taken in a brutal, exciting, toe-curling kiss that left him breathless. "Want another demonstration? I thought we sorted that out on the island."

"Mac ... don't do this to me."

"Do what to you, old man?" Mac asked irritably.

"Pretend ... it's sweet ..."

"Pretend?" Mac squawked. "Pretend what? That I love you, that I need you, that I want you? That's no pretence, you daft bugger."

"But ... in the Louvre ... Mac, I don't understand. You've been avoiding me."

Mac sighed, as if he was only holding on to his patience by a very thin thread. _"You've_ been avoiding _me._ You never come around. I have to go see you, and you're always at Joe's. I thought you were mad at me over what I said when you came back to Paris."

"But you said ... no romance... " He felt like he was inside a Tilt-o-Whirl. Nothing made sense any more. Things he'd be sure of, now were floating away, ungraspable.

Mac's forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember. "Oh. Methos - I was talking about something more than romance. Not instead of romance. Do you want flowers? Do you want a ring?"

Methos' mouth opened, then closed again. I probably look like a gold fish, he thought. "Amanda?" he said faintly.

"I told you. I thought I'd made myself clear about her. I love her. We just can't spend a lot of time together before she drives me completely insane. And she feels the same."

"But I drive you mad."

"You make me whole, you great nitwit!" Mac sat back, and pursed his lips.

Methos fought the urge to giggle, and couldn't stop a grin. "What's so fucking funny?" Mac demanded, hands on his hips.

"Um, as romantic declarations go, that sucks?" And then he did burst out laughing. Mac glared at him, but a smile began to curl up, marring the picture of indignation.

"You want me to go on bended knee?' Mac asked.

"No, I'd like you to get off my stomach before I puke again. I haven't even had breakfast, let alone lunch."

Mac swung off him, stood up and then hauled him to his feet, pulling him into his arms. "Are you really going to be sick?" he asked with concern.

"I could do with eating, and somewhere to sit other than the floor," Methos admitted. There was something he wanted to get clear. "Mac - why did you ... last night..."

"Methos, if you hadn't run away, we could've had this discussion last night. While I was 'dead', I had a ...dream .. a vision ... something, anyway. It showed me just what you meant to me, how much I need you just as you are. I was going to talk to you about it."

"But all that shit about not knowing who I am ..."

Again Mac had that patient look on his face. "I'm four hundred years old, Methos. You're five thousand. If I said I knew exactly who or what you are, I'd be an arrogant bastard, wouldn't I? Don't say it ..." he warned as Methos opened his mouth to point out that Mac _was_ an arrogant bastard. "Look - last night scared the hell out of me. Out of everyone. And then I thought I would lose you too ..." he pulled Methos into a rib-cracking hug. "Not you. Not anyone else I love."

Methos put his head on Mac's shoulder. "You love me?"

"Yes."

"As a friend?"

"Yes."

"More?"

"Oh _yes,_ " Mac said and kissed him. Methos' stomach spoiled the moment by letting out a disgusting gurgle. "But first I feed you, then we talk and then ...."

"And then ...?" Methos asked innocently.

"Methos...." Mac said patiently. "You're doing this to make me crazy."

"It's a gift. Let's go eat. I'm anxious to continue our 'discussions'." Methos couldn't resist rubbing himself against MacLeod, but then his stomach rumbled again, and they both laughed.

Methos wished he could walk out of the barge holding Mac's hand, as he had done freely with Alexa, but knew the Scot would not want his machismo damaged. Or so he'd thought, right up until his fingers were caught in a broad, swordsman's grip. Methos looked at his hand, and then into Mac's smiling eyes. "Ready?" he was asked.

"Yes," he said thankfully. "Oh yes."

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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